


Dies Ater

by Vivian



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Love, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: Mairon remembers Utumno, he remembers Angband, remembers all and yet—not all.Some things fade. Even for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angelas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/gifts).



> Beta'd by my [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas). I love you more than words can tell.

 

>  Τί θέλεις;
> 
> —Άποθανεῖν θέλω.

 

Midst the blackened walls of stone, shadows sway. The night melts away. Flickering phantoms are thrown against the walls as Sauron’s hounds scrap and snarl around the fire. Their fur glints oil-black in the light of the flames. Smoke wafts in the air, thick, carrying scents of sulphur. It mixes with the stench of the beasts. Sauron stands by the cross-arched windows, a breath of night air at his back, creeping along his spine. It makes him shiver. For a split second, he thinks of Him. Not the lingering presence that is always with him. Instead, something visceral and sudden. Sauron remembers the touch of His fingertips against his shoulder. So cold. It thieves him of breath. He remembers Utumno, he remembers Angband, remembers all and yet—not all. 

Some things fade. Even for him. 

He grips at the splintered frame of the window. He holds himself up, but his knees weaken. A sound escapes him. His hounds stop and turn, eyes wide, then cast low. They whine and crouch, moving backward to the gates. Sauron snarls. They run. 

He leans against the wall. His head tilts up, sight veiled. He does not want it, cannot want it, wants all of it. Every shard of memory. They bloody him. Those days when they’d lived proud, and the stench of fear had clung to the children of Ilúvatar. Those days when His step was a storm approaching, His hands the ones to shape the world, and His touch apotheosis. 

He is no longer Sauron. He is once more Mairon. And Mairon keens. 

The flames hiss. The shadows twist, ghostly. They beckon him near. Mairon steps away from the wall and towards the fire. He stares into it. He can almost remember. Can almost feel. 

He speaks His name, shuddering. 

He remembers how he’d sung for Him. Songs of puissance, songs of torment, songs to ensnare and some songs, wordless. When they’d been alone, and night had folded her veils around them. 

Mairon sways, gaze full of flames. He sings then, a worthless song. A melody that once carried strength—and now means nothing. For the magic in it had been old and its meaning open only to those first created before Arda. A song he’d sung with Him, breath mingling, wet against one another’s lips. Low humming, rumbling, something beyond sound. A gift from Him. A thing that has no strength without Him. 

Mairon twines the melody into the air. The flames flicker. Then they extinguish by his breath. Mairon lets in the cold until white wafts from his lips at every exhale. Until frost glaces every surface, dusts Mairon’s skin. 

The distant whining of his hounds echo from the walls, fading. And Mairon does not care if they freeze tonight. 

Mairon sings and lets the spectres dance. Apparitions of memory. Amongst them, His pale effigy. 

It is this sight that finally strikes him down. He sinks to the floor, long fingers clasped over his mouth. 

There they are, the two of them, as they had been. Side by side. He’d been His most trusted servant. Ever with him, his lieutenant, leading his armies, breeding beasts, spreading terror upon those olden lands. No more, no more. Now he sits in Dol Guldur, forced to hide from the elves that live so close by in the woods. Those cursed creatures. Hatred flares in him, he grinds his teeth, how has it come to this, to  _ this _ —

A soundless scream forces his mouth open. His hands against the floor, knees scraping against stone. His hair falls over his eyes. If Melkor could see him now— Debased, in the  _ dirt _ — if he knew Mairon had serviced them— Celebrimbor, and then Ar-Pharazôn, a  _ man _ , not even an elf— At least Celebrimbor had died by his hand. Mairon sits back. He stares at the walls where the phantoms still move. But no spell can capture what the Valar have taken from him. Mairon’s eyes are never fooled, not matter how much he aches for it. To see Him one more time. 

His mountainous form, the swelling of His chest, the grey of His eyes, storm-coloured, His blackened hands. To once more feel like he belongs.

Mairon closes his eyes. 

He was not made to live like this. But it is the only path. For he must endure until Arda fades. He will not hide eternally. He will gather strength. And he will enslave those responsible for his ruin. All of Ilúvatar’s children. He will burn their lands, and take their dead, will make his own creatures of them. And when at last Arda ends, and his shackles are cut, Mairon will return to Him. Victorious.

Mairon opens his eyes, and stares at the phantoms. Memories made into light and dark. He watches how they move in the blackness of Utumno, cut deep into the mountains. Watches how they enter Melkor’s quarters. Mairon does not need to watch to remember. How his hands had trembled. That first time they had kissed. Such a simple thing. Such a  _ dangerous _ thing. There had always been touch between them, but never like this. Mairon had not even dared to imagine. 

_ Liar _ , he tells himself. 

Of course he had, in those hours before dawn in lightless Utumno. No word between them but their names whispered. And Mairon had shown Him, had guided Him. Until Melkor had been inside. 

Mairon shivers in the memory. 

He fists his hands into his hair. And voiceless, he weeps.

He bears no more of it, bears not to speak. Between the shadows, he averts his eyes. The melody fades and with it the gossamer threads of eidolon. 

What do you want most? Melkor had asked him once. 

Mairon had not answered. Melkor had always known what Mairon wanted. To make and mar after his own design, eternal. Melkor had kissed him then, at the break of dawn, deep down in the mines of Angband, the host of the Valar at their heels. All eternity had bled from Him. That final defeat. The drumming of steps descending. Something vile in their kiss. Fragility. 

Flee, He had said.

No, Mairon had plead, no, no, no. 

Melkor had backhanded him then, once and hard. 

You fool, He had snarled. Flee. 

So Mairon had. 

Now, Mairon sits quietly. 

His head leans against the wall, eyes wide in the dark. Treachery of salt on his cheeks. The whimpering of his hounds from afar. It peaks, then fades. Silence.

They’ve died. And Mairon envies them for it. 


End file.
